Any logical or coherent reply to this would have smacked of false modesty, so Morgan used the excuse of adjusting his mask to mumble something unintelligible. He was about to start checking that all the equipment had been unloaded when Professor Sessui added, rather anxiously; “I'm sorry we can't offer you a chair – this is the best we can do.” He pointed to a couple of instrument boxes, one on top of the other. “You really should take it easy.”
The phrase was familiar; so CORA had spoken. There was a slightly embarrassed pause while Morgan registered this fact, and the others admitted that they knew, and he showed that he knew they knew – all without a word being uttered, in the kind of psychological infinite regress that occurs when a group of people share completely a secret which nobody will ever mention again.
He took a few deep breaths – it was amazing how quickly one got used to the masks – and then sat down on the proffered seat. I'm not going to faint again, he told himself with grim determination. I must deliver the goods, and get out of here as quickly as possible – hopefully, before there are any more pronouncements from CORA.
“That can of sealant,” he said, pointing to the smallest of the containers he had brought, “should take care of your leak. Spray it round the gasket of the airlock; it sets hard in a few seconds. Use the oxygen only when you have to; you may need it to sleep. There's a CO2 mask for everyone, and a couple of spares. And here's food and water for three days – that should be plenty. The transporter from 10K should be here tomorrow. As for the Medikit – I hope you won't need that at all.”
He paused for breath; it was not easy to talk while wearing a CO2 filter, and he felt an increasing need to conserve his strength. Sessui's people could now take care of themselves, but he still had one further job to do – and the sooner the better.
Morgan turned to Driver Chang and said quietly: “Please help me to suit up again. I want to inspect the track.”
“That's only a thirty-minute suit you're wearing!”
“I'll need ten minutes – fifteen at the most.”
“Dr. Morgan – I'm a space-qualified operator – you're not. No-one's allowed to go out in a thirty-minute suit without a spare pack, or an umbilical. Except in an emergency, of course.”
Morgan gave a tired smile. Chang was right, and the excuse of immediate danger no longer applied. But an emergency was whatever the Chief Engineer said it was.
“I want to look at the damage,” he answered, “and examine the tracks. It would be a pity if the people from 10K can't reach you, because they weren't warned of some obstacle.”
Chang was clearly not too happy about the situation (what had that gossiping CORA jabbered while he was unconscious?), but raised no further arguments as he followed Morgan into the north lock.
Just before he closed the visor Morgan asked, “Any more trouble with the Professor?”
Chang shook his head. “I think the CO2 has slowed him down. And if he starts up again – well, we outnumber him six to one, though I'm not sure if we can count on his students. Some of them are just as crazy as he is; look at that girl who spends all her time scribbling in the corner. She's convinced that the sun's going out, or blowing up – I'm not sure which – and wants to warn the world before she dies. Much good that would do. I'd prefer not to know.”
Though Morgan could not help smiling, he felt quite sure that none of the professor's students would be crazy. Eccentric, perhaps – but also brilliant; they would not be working with Sessui otherwise. One day he must find out more about the men and women whose lives he had saved; but that would have to wait until they had all returned to earth, by their separate ways.
“I'm going to take a quick walk around the Tower,” said Morgan, “and I'll describe any damage so that you can report to Midway. It won't take more than ten minutes. And if it does – well, don't try to get me back.”
Driver Chang's reply, as he closed the inner door of the airlock, was very practical and very brief. “How the hell could I?” he asked.
56. View from the Balcony
The outer door of the north airlock opened without difficulty, framing a rectangle of complete darkness. Running horizontally across that darkness was a line of fire – the protective hand-rail of the catwalk, blazing in the beam of the searchlight pointed straight up from the mountain so far below. Morgan took a deep breath and flexed the suit. He felt perfectly comfortable, and waved to Chang, peering at him through the window of the inner door. Then he stepped out of the Tower.
The catwalk that surrounded the Basement was a metal grille about two metres wide; beyond it the safety net had been stretched out for another thirty metres. The portion that Morgan could see had caught nothing whatsoever during its years of patient waiting.
He started his circumnavigation of the Tower, shielding his eyes against the glare blasting up from underfoot. The oblique lighting showed up every least bump and imperfection in the surface that stretched above him like a roadway to the stars – which, in a sense, it was.
As he had hoped and expected, the explosion on the far side of the Tower had caused no damage here; that would have required an atomic bomb, not a mere electro-chemical one. The twin grooves of the track, now awaiting their first arrival, stretched endlessly upwards in their pristine perfection. And fifty metres below the balcony – though it was hard to look in that direction because of the glare – he could just make out the terminal buffers, ready for a task which they should never have to perform.
Taking his time, and keeping close to the sheer face of the Tower, Morgan walked slowly westwards until he came to the first corner. As he turned he looked back at the open door of the airlock, and the – relative, indeed! – safety that it represented. Then he continued boldly along the blank wall of the west face.
He felt a curious mixture of elation and fear, such as he had not known since he had learned to swim and found himself for the first time, in water out of his depth. Although he was certain that there was no real danger, there could be. He was acutely aware of CORA, biding her time; but Morgan bad always hated to leave any job undone, and his mission was not yet complete.
The west face was exactly like the north one, except for the absence of an airlock. Again, there was no sign of damage, even though it was closer to the scene of the explosion.
Checking the impulse to hurry – after all, he had been outside for only three minutes – Morgan strolled on to the next corner. Even before he turned it, he could see that he was not going to complete his planned circuit of the Tower. The catwalk had been ripped off and was dangling out into space, a twisted tongue of metal. The safety net had vanished altogether, doubtless torn away by the falling transporter.
I won't press my luck, Morgan told himself. But he could not resist peering round the corner, holding on to the section of the guard rail that still remained.
There was a good deal of debris stuck in the track, and the face of the Tower had been discoloured by the explosion. But, as far as Morgan could see, even here there was nothing that could not be put right in a couple of hours by a few men with cutting torches. He gave a careful description to Chang, who expressed relief and urged Morgan to get back into the Tower as soon as possible.
“Don't worry,” said Morgan. “I've still got ten minutes and all of thirty metres to go. I could manage on the air I have in my lungs now.”
But he did not intend to put it to the test. He had already had quite enough excitement for one night. More than enough, if CORA was to be believed; from now on he would obey her orders implicitly.